


The First Thirty Minutes

by Sealie



Series: 'Uhane [1]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealie/pseuds/Sealie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, I read Samantha Kathy’s TS fusion and I was <i>entranced</i>, and then I wrote a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Thirty Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: Slash; h/c; PG-13  
> Word count: ~6, 500  
> Warning: a bit gory  
> Advisory: potty mouth;  
> Comments: British English spelling  
> Spoilers: none – it’s an AU fusion of ‘The Sentinel’  
> Beta: Springwoof, thank you m’dear. She’s an enabler.
> 
> The inspiring ts fusion fic in question is here --> http://archiveofourown.org/works/261453

“Okay, honestly, I had nothing to do with this,” Steve opened with as he poked his head into Danny’s office. 

“What have you done?” Danny demanded, and his voice was so -- _Grace Elisabeth Williams explain now_ \-- that he had to fight not to wince. 

Steve added icing to the cake, “It was Governor Denning,”

“Steven J. McGarrett.”

“There’s been a murder on Guide Island and as the premier--” and, yes, Steve preened, “--investigative task force--”

“We’re the only task force.”

“He wants us to go over and investigate, you being a sentinel and all….” 

~*~

Guide Island, or simply known as ‘Aina, was largely forbidden to visitors. It was a pearl of an island -- a green, cloud-tipped, mountainous pearl in a glorious blue ocean below them as the Government of Hawaii’s Jetstream slowly began its descent. The presence of the 'uhane meant that it was protected and sacred. Since the first day that Danny had set foot on the Islands of Hawaii everyone and their maiden aunt, concerned that he did not have a guide, had insisted, advised, pointed out, mentioned, that he should go to ‘Aina because surely then he would find a guide. 

Daniel Williams did not want a guide. He was doing fine without a guide. He was his own man. He was capable of guiding himself, because when you thought about it, his mother was a sentinel and his father was a guide. He could be both. Genetics rocked. 

To be honest it wasn’t just on Hawaii where people insisted that he had to have a guide. That demand had followed him through his entire life. 

“I can’t believe that I can go to the Island of the Guides,” Max burbled happily from his plush leather seat. “Do you know that outsiders are rarely, if ever, allowed to venture on the island?” His fingers beat out a complicated ditty on the top of the case resting on his knees. 

Steve shot the forensic specialist’s hands a dark look, as he prowled the confines of the cabin -- moving from seat, to couch, to in-house bar, the reinforced round windows in order to peer out. 

“Really? I didn’t know that,” Danny said sarcastically. “Being a sentinel and all.” 

“I wish I was a sentinel.” Max sighed deeply. “Being a forensic specialist and a sentinel would make for _superlative_ inferences. Just imagine, Detective Williams, if you find your guide here your focus and abilities will increase by an order of magnitude.” He smiled brightly. “Do you hope you’ll find your guide?”

Danny rolled his eyes. The rest of the planet was oblivious. He had a guide, the most un-guidelike guide since the creation of guides, but he had a guide. His guide didn’t meditate. His guide didn’t profess a pacifistic approach to life. His guide didn’t advocate a vegetarian lifestyle. His guide actually didn’t know that he was a guide, and Danny was strangely okay with that. He had to juggle a daughter being brought up by another man, an ex-wife who blew hot and cold, high octane cases with massive amounts of explosions and bullets….

“You’ve gone red,” Steve pointed out, dropping on the couch beside Danny. “You want to stop thinking so loud? You’re going to give yourself an embolism. Try that breathing thing you do.” Steve had the audacity to emulate the careful inhale and exhale advocated on every sentinel-help sheet seen in pamphlets, television infomercials, or on websites. 

Guides were calm. Guides were subservient. Guides were supportive. Guides were empathic. Guides were expected to be a lot of things. But mostly they were supposed to be there for their sentinel in all things. 

Danny thought that the ‘general public’ and their preconceptions were idiotic.

If Steve was identified as a guide he would be moved from the SEAL naval reserves list, and transferred to a sentinel unit. And, more than likely, no longer be considered suitable to be the Head of H5-0. 

“Is the altitude fucking you up?” Steve asked. “We’re coming into land. We should touch ground in less than ten minutes. Try swallowing; it will equalise the pressure in your ears.” 

He was taking his guide to an island of guides -- what if the guides could tell that Steve was a guide? He clung to the fact that his dad had never spoken of a guide detection radar. Sentinels spotted prospective guides when they looked for them. 

“Ow!” 

Steve had just punched his arm, the bastard. 

“Oh, you’re not zoning.” Steve smiled toothily. 

“No, I was not zoning! I was thinking. I do that, a lot. I don’t have to spend every second of every day entertaining you.”

“Hey, do you think that you’ll find your guide here?” 

“No,” Danny snapped. “Because I don’t need to find a guide.”

Steve held his hands up. “So sensitive. Maybe a guide would help with your anger issues?” 

“I don’t think so,” Danny said darkly. 

~*~

Steve craned his head, peering through the tiny portal window at the landscape of Guide Island like it smelled bad. 

“What’s the problem?” Danny asked, resisting the temptation to push Steve back into his seat and check his seat belt. 

“It’s. It’s. It’s so regimented.” Steve waved his hand at the valley below them as the plane circled before landing. His gesticulation encompassed the zen-like order of the gardens arrayed before the white edifice that housed the central tower. 

“You like order. I’ve seen your fridge,” Danny pointed out. 

“I think that they’ve even mowed the mountains. I’m glad Kono wasn’t allowed to come. She’d hate this.” 

“It has a zen quality.” Danny craned his head to look around Steve. “Chin would probably like it.”

“Actually, I know what that looks like,” Max said. “Portmeirion from the ‘Prisoner’ television series.”

“What?” Danny snapped. “Isn’t that a drink?”

Max flinched. “No, it’s a village in Wales.” 

~*~

Sentinels are territorial schmucks. Danny knew this. That was why the _identified_ guides were sequestered away on an island in the middle of nowhere by the Guidefinder Sentinel, until the perfect match could be found. 

The dickless bastard of the Guidefinder Sentinel was probably on his way. Fuck that Governor Denning wanted his premier team to find the murderer on the island before Paul Arles arrived from Europe to look good. Danny was going to find the murderer and get the Hell out of Dodge.

Luckily, the victim was one of the support staff and not a guide, otherwise every unguided sentinel in North America and Asia would have been making their way over, closely followed by the European and African sentinel contingent. 

Danny didn’t even want to imagine fifty odd sentinels all descending on ‘Aina at once. Guide frenzy. 

Happy Joy. 

“Sentinel Williams?” Mrs. Brooke Malone, coordinator of ‘Aina, approached Steve. It was a common misconception. People thought sentinels were tall and authoritarian, and guides were _sensitive_ , weak and feeble, clingy midgets. Even the guides and sentinels promulgated the perception. And that actually worked in Danny’s, and indirectly, Steve’s favour. 

Steve jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Danny. “He’s the sentinel.” 

“Ah, Sentinel Williams.” Mrs. Malone shot a glance at Danny, then back at Steve, measuringly. 

“That is Lieutenant Commander McGarrett, Head of H5-0.” Danny jerked his own thumb at Steve. “And this is Max Bergman, our Medical Examiner.” 

Max poked his head around Steve’s torso and wiggled his hand in a little wave. 

“I thought that only sentinels and guides were coming.” Mrs. Malone narrowed her eyes. 

“Guide free zone.” Danny waved his hand in a big circle over his chest. “H5-0 is investigating at Governor Denning’s request.” 

“Uhmph.” Mrs. Malone’s lips narrowed. “I assume that you’ll want to see the scene?” 

“No, I thought that I’d come all the way over here to just see the sights; paddle barefooted in the Pacific Ocean; bask in the warm, ambient glow of the Pacific sun, and let my sensitive skin turn a warm bronze. Perhaps I’ll take a walk in your overly coiffured gardens--” 

Steve snorted and brushed a hand over his own short cropped hair. 

“Yes, please take me to the scene of the murder,” Danny finished. 

Mrs. Malone stood a little taller in her Prada heels. “We’re not entirely sure that it is a murder.” 

“And that is why were here,” Danny pointed out. “To figure out what happened and, if necessary, stop it happening again.” 

“What’s the scene like?” Steve asked. “What condition was the body found in?”

Mrs. Malone straightened a fraction more. “He was found lying on the kitchen floor, I believe. Dead.”

“Oh, I’ve downloaded the crime scene photos. There’s no overt sign of violence.” Max rifled in his briefcase and pulled out an iPad. “There should be no effluvium to mess with Sentinel Williams’ senses. It’s possible, but not proven, that this may be a case of natural causes or, perhaps, poisoning -- considering the dead man’s rictus grin.” 

“Poisoning? Okay, we’d best be careful then. We’ll assess the scene from outside first,” Steve said.

“ _We_?” Danny mouthed at Max, who smiled. 

Ignoring them, Steve held out his hand for Max’s iPad. “Max, we’ll be talking later about briefings and timing them.” 

Reluctantly, Max handed over his iPad. Steve’s long fingers stroked over the screen, calling up the images. Danny rocked onto one foot to better crane his head so he could see the pixels. _Ooops_ , he reined back his sight. Real things, things that he could touch, smell and see, were much better. 

“Well, whatever you think best, _Lieutenant Commander_ McGarrett.” Mrs. Malone sniffed and turned on her heel. “Follow me.” 

Steve raised an eyebrow, and Danny shrugged in response. 

“So, Sentinel Williams,” Mrs. Malone said with her back to them as she strode ahead, heels tap tap tapping against the paving stones. “Will you visit with the guides while you’re here?”

“Not today, No. Or tomorrow.” Danny set his chin high and paced after her. 

~*~

Danny stalked through the room where Akeakamai Iona had been found. The lecturer of history and philosophy had been found dead on the floor of his modest kitchen, surrounded by granola and semi-skim milk. The tracks were disturbed by the medical professionals who had responded to his frantic post-grad student when she had found him lying on the cold tiles. Max had made a cursory examination of the room and then returned to the centre of the town, to the small cottage hospital where the body had been transferred. 

Steve leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, and looked out along the carefully arrayed gardens and houses towards the central tower. His back was towards Danny and the detritus left behind from attempts to save the professor. 

“See something?” Danny asked that rigid back. 

“No,” Steve said tersely. 

“You all right?”

“Yes.” Steve turned on a dime and surveyed the kitchen. “You pick up anything?”

“Mr. Iona was found with no obvious defensive marks. I don’t detect any chemicals other than standard cleaning products. There’s scent evidence here of three people, not including Iona, entering the kitchen. We’ll have to talk to the post-grad and the paramedics, so I can discount them. The man has never cleaned behind the fridge.” 

“Well, not everyone is a sentinel,” Steve said philosophically. “Okay, Max has the body. Let’s go see the student and then the paramedics first so you don’t get your sense memory fucked up before we check on Max.” 

~*~

Morosely, Danny pushed baked organic squash and parmesan quinoa risotto around his plate. Beside him Steve tucked in contentedly, humming under his breath. He probably felt like he was back in the Navy and was comfortable in a regimented canteen. Around Danny, the gentle hubbub of trainee guides grated at his senses. They were staring at him, speculatively. Steve was oblivious, eating happily. Danny knew that he was going to find the cook and ask for this recipe. 

Suddenly, Steve set down his spoon. Turning deliberately in his seat he stared at the main table of fascinated teens and young adults of all shapes and sizes. He raised his eyebrow and en masse they abandoned their table and bolted. Huffing with satisfaction, he returned to his bowl. 

Danny snorted. 

Tap, tap, tap. He didn’t need to be a sentinel to know who was behind him. 

“Sentinel Williams, how are you enjoying the risotto? It’s my favourite recipe.” Mrs. Malone smiled, all white teeth and dark red lipstick, as she came alongside the table. 

“I’m not hungry.” 

Behind the coordinator, the staff started clearing off the tables. 

“It’s the perfect balance of nutrients. The quinoa contains essential amino acids,” she said. “The hint of white wine smoothes the combination of flavours.” 

“You should eat,” Steve said. “It’s good. You haven’t eaten since before we got on the plane.”

“I’m eating.” Danny stuffed a spoonful in his mouth. Surprisingly -- given the description -- it was tasty. The texture on his tongue was firm but yielding. The savoury bite was surprising, it smelled sweeter. 

Mrs. Malone started to draw back the seat beside Danny, but a clatter from the kitchen caught her attention. 

“Excuse me, Sentinel Williams.” 

“I think she likes you,” Steve said admiring her pert ass as she set off at a remarkably fast clip for the kitchen. The few lingering guides scattered in her wake. “Me, I think, not so much.” 

“You’re not a sentinel, babe. She’s a sentinel groupee, being a guide and all. She’s probably jealous that you get to spend time with me.” 

Steve eyed the mound of risotto on his spoon as if he was contemplating trajectories and targets, corresponding to a direct impact on Danny’s tie. 

Distraction was the name of the game. “This risotto stuff is good.” 

“I told you it was good.” 

Danny had to agree (although sometimes he liked to argue because arguing was fun) that despite sounding pretty weird, the recipe worked. He wouldn’t protest if Steve made this sometime, although potentially it was better as a side to a juicy slice of steak with a mound of freshly mashed potatoes with butter or those tiny, perfect, new potatoes with a spoonful of mayonnaise. 

Steve wasn’t listening. 

“Tiramisu. Tiramisu with savoiardi soaked in Marsala and strong espresso. Real cream cheese. Dusting of chocolate. Steve!” 

“What?” Steve jerked. “You okay?”

“What are you doing? What are you listening to?” Danny rejoined. 

“I dunno.” He stood up and scanned the few people finishing off their late lunches. 

“Chill, you’re too ansty; you’ll upset the baby guides.” Danny abandoned his own lunch. “Let’s go see if Max has found anything out. And figure out when we can get out of this Stepford Hell Hole.” 

~*~

“Embolism. Brain bleed,” Max said succinctly on the other side of the window in the operating theatre that he had co-opted for the autopsy. Danny’s control was awesome, but he didn’t see any point of immersing himself in the miasma of a decaying person. 

Steve tapped the glass. “So, not a murder?” he asked Max over the intercom. 

“No. Not unless you can make people develop an embolism spontaneously,” Max said. 

“Excellent.” Danny clapped his hands together. “I’ll get onto a satellite phone, call Sentinel Arles, and tell him that he doesn’t need to travel from Brussels, Europe. Mrs. Malone should have one in her office.” 

“I’ve got one,” Steve said, stopping Danny in his tracks as he scurried to the door. 

“What?”

Steve drew out a bulky phone from the left-hand pocket of his cargo pants. Before he had even started deploying the antenna, Danny snatched it from his hands. 

“Manners!” Steve rebuked. 

Danny flipped up the antenna and extended it even as he bustled out of the theatre area. The corridor outside was empty, but he kept moving, stabbing the large waterproof buttons -- Geez, Steve and his toys -- as he headed to fresh air. The signal strength was crap. Fuck, Sentinel Central probably controlled the number of flyover satellites in the immediate airspace. Danny turned out of the main corridor and took the stairs two at a time, damn the knee. 

“Danny, wait up. Are you all right?” Steve chased after him. 

“I’ll get a better signal on the roof.” 

Steve loped up next to him, easily keeping pace. “Why the hurry?” 

“Arles.” Danny slammed through the fire door and out onto the sunlit roof. He turned in a circle trying to get a signal. “I just need to call Arles and stop him coming.” 

“Why the urgency? Who is Arles?” Steve paced around him, scoping out the immediate area. They were at the highest point of the whole complex. 

“Pain in the ass busybody who likes to get into everyone’s business. Witchfinder, _Guidefinder_ General. Thinks being a sentinel means that he can get into everyone’s business.” 

“Why are you--” Steve stopped and cocked his head to the side. “What is that?” He pressed his fingers against his right temple. 

“What?” Danny demanded. He hadn’t seen that constipated expression on Steve’s mobile face before. “I can’t hear anything.” 

“Really?” Steve gasped and dropped down on one knee. “It fucking hurts.” 

“Holy shit, your nose is bleeding.” Danny beetled over to his side, pulling out a tissue from his pant’s pocket. 

Steve folded at the waist with a groan.

“Steve?” Danny slid up beside Steve, stopping him face planting on the roof. He got his arms around Steve’s shoulders. What the Hell was happening? His senses were alert; he couldn’t hear anything. If it was subsonic, he -- a sentinel -- would be on his knees. 

“She’s in my mind!” Abruptly, Steve straightened, the back of his head clipping against Danny’s jaw. Danny saw stars. 

“Steve!”

Steve arched against him, fists clenched. “Stop her.” 

_What the fuck?_ There was someone coming up the stairs, heels clicking. Mrs. Malone emerged, setting one pointy toed foot onto the silver matted roof. Holding the door emergency exit bar, she carefully stepped over the lintel. 

“Pretend guide,” she sneered. “Fake guide. You contaminate this sentinel by your very presence.” 

Steve’s distress beat against Danny’s senses. There was a cold core in his guts. Cramps assailed him. He was in _pain_. 

“Sentinel?” Mrs. Malone dropped to one knee in a parody of Steve’s pose. “You’re hurting.” 

“Bitch!” Steve straight-armed her directly in the centre of her chest. She tumbled backwards. Kicking her feet out at him, she skittered away, panicked. 

“Horrible man.” She held her hand before Steve and clenched her fist. Slowly, she got her long legs under her and rose to her feet. “Your fighting is hurting Sentinel Williams.” 

The pain coursed through Danny, driving him to hands and knees. In tandem, Steve actually squeaked. Danny was hammered down onto the silver roof to lie prone. The hot, coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. 

“Got it,” Steve said inexplicably. A warm hand clamped down on Danny’s shoulder. “I’m a fast learner.”

Mrs. Malone screamed. 

“So you don’t like people who you think aren’t good enough to be guides? By your criteria, of course?” Steve stood, and that glorious warmth no longer seeped into Danny’s shoulder. “What did Akeakamai Iona do? Disagree with you? I mean, a lecturer of history and philosophy, I guess his raison d'être was discussion, and all that that entails, including disagreeing. You didn’t like that, did you? There’s a word for people like you: tyrant.” 

Danny managed to raise his aching head. Mrs. Malone was backing away from Steve, who stalked after her, matching her every step. 

“Steve? Steven?” Danny said. 

“Let’s throw another analogy into the mix. You rule this place with a rod of iron. Maybe analogy is the wrong word.” Steve set one foot deliberately forward. 

“Don’t.” Mrs. Malone clawed at her thick curly hair. 

“But I saw those kids--” Steve raised his hand high, fingers splayed, ready to clench down, “--they were scared of you.” 

“Steve, don’t!” Danny yelled. “Whatever you’re doing -- stop!”

“What?” Steve jerked around. 

Mrs. Malone screeched, high and wild. Steve folded at the knees and she launched herself on to his back. She smacked her hands down on either side of his head and laughed, madly. Steve screamed. 

“No, no!” Danny scrambled to his feet. “Get off him.” 

She was half the weight of Steve, but she was beating him. Danny pulled out his SIG pro, aimed for the sniper’s apricot, squeezed the trigger, and obliterated the lower half of her brainstem. She was dead between one breath and the next. Collapsing on top of Steve, they both slumped on the roof. 

Danny half crawled-half ran to their side. He unceremoniously dragged the woman off Steve. His guide was sprawled, unconscious, in a heap, arm twisted underneath him. A trickle of blood marred the top of Steve’s lip. Danny ran sentinel-sure fingers over his guide -- nothing felt out of place. Setting one hand under Steve’s neck, supporting his spine, he straightened one long leg and then carefully levered him onto his back. 

“Babe, come on.” There wasn’t even a flicker of a response. He could hear people running up the stairs, towards the sound of gunfire rather than away. Probably an internal security sentinel. 

“Sentinel Danny Williams,” he hollered. “I need a paramedic now! Or, better yet, a doctor.” 

The footsteps stopped. Danny clearly heard a young woman speaking on a radio requesting assistance. They were in a hospital; it wasn’t going to take long. 

Slower footsteps sounded up the stairs. Danny ignored them, focussed on the slow beat of Steve’s heart and the soft susurration of his breathing.

~*~

Steve was diagnosed with diffuse contrecoup brain injury with no external injury. The doctor had likened it to a concussion and Steve was sleeping off a massive headache interspersed with bouts of projectile vomiting. He also kept saying really random stuff when he did wake up that would be funny when he was discharged from the hospital. 

Danny set his hand on the glass door of Steve’s cubicle and felt the slight, amorphous give of the surface. Steve had pulled his sheet over his head blocking out the sunlight. The nurses would come in soon and tug it down –- again. 

“So Mrs. Malone was insane?” Arles said from behind him. 

“Completely. Off her rocker. Psychotic. She didn’t like anyone that she thought was pretending to be a guide.”

“She thought that Commander McGarrett was pretending to be a guide? Was he pretending to be a guide?”

Danny glanced over his shoulder at the taller sentinel. “No,” he said honestly, “McGarrett was not pretending to be a guide.” 

“And Iona?”

“McGarrett guessed that he questioned Malone’s work ethics.” Danny rested his forehead on the cool glass. Steve shifted under the blanket, his back now to Danny. “You need to check on the other staff and trainees; as soon as we got here we thought that the place was fucked up. They’ll be able to help you get a picture of Mrs. Malone’s actions.” 

“Fair enough.” Arles stepped up beside Danny, arms crossed. “How did _Mrs_. Malone take down a Navy SEAL? There was no weapon found at the scene.” 

“She jumped on his back and caught him by surprise.” Danny felt a frisson of unease. He was going to give this one to Arles, especially if it distracted him from Steve. “I’ve never seen anything like it. She was --. She could do something… I don’t know what it was. I felt as if I was scared without the fear, it was just my body?”

“Physiological?” 

“My heart was beating fast. I could barely grab a breath. My stomach was cramping. I was sweating like a pig. Iona died of a brain bleed. I could feel my blood rushing through my arteries.” 

“She caused this non-fear fear response and it can kill?”

“Maybe Iona had some sort of -- what did Max call it -- congenital thing in his head?”

“Congenital defect in a vein or artery which predisposed him to developing an embolism,” Arles summed up. 

Danny shrugged as he pressed the palms of his hands against the cold glass, forcing calm. 

Arles glared at Danny, his dark skin flushing darker, underscoring barely contained anger. Absently, Danny wondered where his guide was, or if he had never found that elusive guide. 

“So you killed a projecting empath.” 

“Oh,” Danny said wonderingly, “is that what she was?” 

“Yes, Sentinel Williams, she was obviously a projecting empath instead of just a receiving empath, which is as rare as the Koh-i-Noor diamond, and you shot her in the head. Jesus.” 

“Oh. Sorry?” Danny hazarded. 

“I don’t believe it. I really don’t believe it. I will need a complete report from you, Williams. Your medical examiner has the body? Damn, I’m going to have to take possession of the remains.” 

“Max is in the morgue-theatre,” Danny said helpfully, and pointed vaguely downstairs. He wasn’t going to tell Arles that he had basically shot her head off. 

“I want that report, Williams.” Arles stalked off. 

“Okay, yeah, sure, I’ll email it to you.” He slipped into Steve’s glass room, crouching to carefully lift the sheet. “Steve, are you awake?”

Steve didn’t react. His only movements were slow, regular breaths and Danny could tell; he was a sentinel. Steve was deeply, deeply asleep, verging on unconscious. There was a tiny fleck of dried blood caught on a speck of stubble just under his nose. Danny resisted the temptation to clean it off. The faintest huff of air passed over Steve’s open lips. They were not going to be moving soon. 

Danny carefully draped the sheet back over his head. 

Okay, his plan of action was: one, chivvying Max to complete the autopsy of Mrs. Malone and hand her over to Arles; two, prep the Jetstream for immediate take off; three, get a work update from Chin, and, four, run rings around the Guide Witchfinder. 

~*~

Item one was relatively straightforward. Arles was already planning on casing up Malone’s remains and arranging transport. Behind his back, Danny punched the air. Mrs. Malone no longer had enough brain to autopsy. Hilariously -- although potentially that wasn’t the right word -- Max and Arles were arguing over sovereignty over the remains. Arles was going to win, but Danny figured that if Arles was fighting with Max he wasn’t talking to Danny. So that was a win-win scenario. Max had, however, preserved the brains of her victim for further analysis. Danny squirreled away that fact to distract Arles if he did start asking questions. The Jetstream was ready to take off since the pilots were bored. 

The icing on the cake was when Steve finally woke up he wanted out. And he wanted out, now. 

“So,” Danny interrogated the doctor, “can he leave? Is there an impending medical emergency?”

“No,” the doctor said, affronted. “Commander McGarrett hasn’t presented with any of the indications of a serious, complex head injury, but it is appropriate for him to remain under medical observation. Possibly for another twenty four hours?”

“The flight time to Honolulu is fifty minutes.” 

“Yes, but if he took ill--”

“Twenty five minutes,” Steve interjected from the corner of his room where he was pulling on a thin t-shirt. “We’d be landing in twenty five minutes if I _miraculously_ developed a spontaneous brain bleed exactly half way though the trip.”

Steve sailed past them, as untouchable as an aircraft carrier. 

~*~

Steve did, however, crash the second that he got on the Jetstream, opting to plant head first on one of the plush sofas and falling fast asleep. 

As the pilots prepared for takeoff, Max positioned himself opposite Danny. A silver canister was propped prominently on his knees. Danny ignored him through the final checks, takeoff (it always fucked up his Eustachian tubes), and levelling out at 25, 000 feet. 

“What?” Danny asked after ten minutes of unrelenting staring. 

“Sentinel Arles is not a very intelligent man,” Max opened with. 

Danny didn’t have a clue how to respond to the observation. 

“There are a lot of things which I don’t understand. I don’t understand why guides are constrained into a subordinate role. I don’t understand why guides are assumed to be second to a sentinel. I don’t understand why guides are thought to be incapable of having an opinion without checking with their sentinel. But I don’t understand why people believe in astrology, or homeopathy, either.”

“Is there a point to this?” 

“Perhaps that’s not a good comparison. Once people believed that the earth was the centre of the universe.”

Danny was tempted to join Steve on the sofa. 

“May I ask you a favour?” Max continued 

“You may,” Danny retorted, because sometimes he couldn’t resist being an ass. 

Max rifled in his pocket and pulled out a USB stick. “Please look after this. Or destroy it if you deem it necessary. It contains the results of my autopsy of Mrs. Malone and Mr. Iona. As samples go the size is insufficient to make any statistically significant determinations but it will facilitate inferences. It also contains the scans which Commander McGarrett’s doctor recommended when he was admitted to the hospital.” 

“What!” Danny demanded, rocketing to his feet and snatching the USB stick off Max. 

“They are copies of the scans which I deleted from the hospital servers,” Max said. “I replaced the commander’s records with records from an adult male who had suffered a concussion.” 

“You hacked?” Danny glanced at Steve. 

“Not quite. While I am good with computers, I am not as adept as Chin. I called him on a secure line and he walked me through the procedure.” 

“Jesus, what have you figured out?” Danny slumped back on the sofa, head in hands. And Chin was in the know too. 

“That the commander is your guide; this is based on your overprotective nature. Luckily, he is as protective of you. It is quite endearing. However, since the commander does not display many of the so-called guide characteristics, despite being over-protective, overly concerned with your dietary intake and health, locked down emotionally rather than being emotionless and--”

“Shut up.”

“People see what they expect to see. It is to your advantage,” Max continued. “I was intrigued by Sentinel Arles insistence on securing Mrs. Malone’s remains and her victim’s. He was also randomly selecting the non-guide staff at the centre and planning a suite of MRI scans. I suspect that he was looking for organic evidence of guide-wrought changes in their brains. Emotions are powerful -- ongoing stress causes obvious morphological changes in the brain. Which is fascinating. Given the circumstances of Mr. Iona’s death and McGarrett’s non-impact contrecoup injury, it’s an intriguing supposition.” 

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Oh.” Max sagged in his chair. “It is interesting,” he added half-sullenly. But he immediately continued, “Why is Arles hiding this potential aspect of guide abilities?” 

“Because people are shits.” Danny jumped to his feet and paced. “They fear what they don’t understand. It was hard enough getting the general public to accept sentinels: super-powered hyper-sensory walking lie detectors. But throw some pepper in front of a sentinel and they’re stuffed. A loud whistle can drive them to their knees. They need help….”

“They’re flawed.” Max shrugged. “They’re human. And a guide who can make someone’s brain explode isn’t?” 

“You tell me? My ex-wife used to make me angry enough I thought that my head was going to explode. The thought that she could do it with a click of her fingers? Deeply creepy.” 

Steve’s shoulders were rigid; there was no way that he was asleep.

“So the focus on sentinels, their status, their promotion in the news and cinema is really to take the attention away from guides?” Max extrapolated. 

“To be honest, it’s just a guess. Mrs. Malone was unique enough that it drew Arles all the way from another continent. I’ve never heard of it.” Danny spun on his heel. “My dad’s just a genuinely nice guy who helps my mom. Okay ‘just’ isn’t the right word. He’s loyal and amazing and looks after the entire family and he’s the best dad in the universe.” 

“Ah,” Max said. 

“What?” Danny demanded, stopping dead right before the medical examiner. He was just describing his dad. “Are you being disrespectful to my dad? My dad the guide? My mom’s guide. ‘Ah.’ What does ‘ah’ mean?” He growled. 

“I just meant --” Max set his canister down and scooted to the far end of the sofa. “I think that I might go and see if I can get a guided tour of the cockpit.”

Danny watched him escape. Okay, that had been a little cruel and manipulative, but he had a guide to look after. 

“Steve? I know that you’re awake.” 

There was no answer. 

“Come on, Steve, talk to me.” Danny shuffled from foot to foot. “If you don’t answer I’m going to come over and check you over.” 

“Leave me alone. I’m just lying here being deeply creepy,” Steve said, sulkily. 

“Look, I apologise, wholeheartedly. I said that to put Max off. Come on, turn over.”

Heaving out an aggrieved sigh, Steve flipped over. Head pillowed on a cushion, he stared at Danny. 

“So are we going to come clean?” Danny opened with. “I knew that you were a guide. And that you were making a reasonable attempt at guiding me. But I thought that you didn’t know that you were a guide. Did you know that you were a guide?” 

Steve pondered. 

“Don’t lie. I’ll know, you know, being an intrusive, nosey sentinel and all.” 

“Yes,” Steve said finally. “My mom was a guide. Dad had a couple of heightened senses: touch and smell.”

“And you kept quiet.”

“Bottled up, if you want to be accurate. You call me a robot. Mock my lack of mammal-to-mammal skills. But they don’t call me Smooth Dog for nothing.” 

“You use your empathy to get laid?” 

“When you say it like that it sounds creepy.” 

“Hey, it’s your example.”

“Well, I can promise you that my creepiness doesn’t descend to those depths.” Steve scowled.

“And you kept quiet, kept ‘bottled up’ because you didn’t want to guide.” 

“I have no objection to being a guide, but I don’t want to be shoehorned into a role that prevents me living the life I choose, because of something innate.” Steve rested his forearm over his eyes. “No one would have let me join the military. No one would have sanctioned me joining the SEAL teams. My applications wouldn’t even have been considered. They would have even said being a quarterback at high school would have been too stressful for a proto-guide.” 

“So why get me on your task force? You had to know, that this--” Danny pointed at his own chest and then at Steve, back and forth, “--would get people talking, speculating, wondering if we were Sentinel and Guide.” 

Steve laughed. “You’re an idiot. You’re my sentinel. I may not like you sometimes. And you’re as aggravating as fuck and a hothead. But you’re my partner and my sentinel.”

“Gee, I feel so loved.” 

“Good, you should. Because I’m ready to fight. I could have made my stand when I was starting my career, but it would have been a short career. I’ve been a SEAL who also happened to be a guide. A guide operative in Naval Intelligence. Now I’m a Lieutenant Commander and Head of a successful Government Task Force despite being a _sensitive_ guide. And no one is taking you off me.”

“Or you off me.” Danny was suddenly taking a jerking step towards his guide. 

Steve lifted his forearm a fraction and eyed him. “What you doing?” 

“I dunno,” Danny said. “I think I was going to lay on the couch with you.” 

Steve squinted. “Right. No. It’s really not the time for that.” He glanced at the closed cockpit door. 

Danny dropped down on his couch and sat on his hands. He really wanted to touch Steve: run his hands over Steve’s sore head; check the flow of blood over his scalp; gauge his temperature; tip his chin up and check his eyes. 

Kiss him. 

_Oh_. 

“You should sleep.” Danny hung his head low, focussing on the weave of the carpet, so that he wouldn’t be entranced by the siren call of his now acknowledged and injured guide. 

“Danny, get over here.” 

“What?” Danny lifted his head. 

“Sentinel.” Steve pointed at Danny and then at himself. “Guide. Do your thing.” 

On his knees, Danny skittered over the short distance separating him from his guide, and laid his hands upon him. An even and healthy pulse throbbed under his fingertips. He stroked through Steve’s short cropped curls, mapping the terrain of his skull. Steve closed his eyes and sighed like a cat. 

“You drive me insane,” Danny said conversationally, and dipped down for a kiss. Steve’s lips were a little dry but they yielded under his. Gently, Steve nibbled Danny’s bottom lip and then pulled back. 

“Not tonight, Dear, I have a headache.” His long arms encircled Danny’s back and drew him down, settling him comfortably atop of him like his own personal Danny blanket. Their legs tangled together. Danny was perfectly positioned, his ear directly over Steve’s beating heart.

“So can you do what Mrs. Malone could do?” Danny whispered. 

Steve’s shrug moved him up and down, but he answered with a, “Yes. It felt kind of weird -- feeling her making me so stressed that I thought that my heart was going to explode. I knew that it was manipulation, not real stress. I basically just slapped her back in exactly the same way.”

“So that was the first time?” 

“Sort of,” Steve murmured. “I think I might have been a similarly manipulative when I was a really young kid. Not pain and stress but making people do what I wanted because it made them feel good. I remember figuring that it wasn’t very nice, mainly because it wasn’t real.” Steve squeezed him tightly, like he was a teddy bear, and that kid in Steve’s memory was trying to hug all the stuffing out. 

Danny turned his head and pressed a kiss over Steve’s heart. “It’s okay, Babe. I know you wouldn’t abuse it. And you figured that out when you were little more than a toddler.” 

A mirror kiss brushed the hair on the top of his head.

“We’re going to have to be careful, Babe,” Danny continued. “Arles was absolutely fascinated by Mrs. Malone. If he has even an inkling that you could be a projecting empath, he’ll come and take you away over my dead body.” 

The arms around his shoulders tightened. “Not going anywhere.” 

“Damn right you’re not.” 

Danny curled up into the delicious warmth. It was thirty minutes until they landed. This was going to be the first thirty minutes of the rest of his life. He was going to enjoy every second of it. 

**Fin**


End file.
